


Well In Hand

by BlueMinuet



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Medical Procedures, Mentions of Functionalism, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 08:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21115721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMinuet/pseuds/BlueMinuet
Summary: Ratchet doesn’t want to admit his hands need maintenance, but Megatron is determined to assist anyway.





	Well In Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Yrindor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yrindor/gifts).

> ... how is this the first time I've published a Ratchet-centric fic?? (Doesn't matter, I regret nothing.)

Megatron hovered, wondering how much longer he would have to continue pretending to read before Ratchet, less than an arms-length away, would finally acknowledge his presence. He hemmed and hawed a few times, exaggeratedly, but Ratchet just continued on with his work, cataloguing the ship’s medical supplies. He would pick up vials and other items here and there, and to the casual observer, he would seem to be doing a fine and precise job of it. But, Megatron could see the pauses, the places where his hand might stutter or shake, and Ratchet would cover for it, setting down a vial a moment before he’d finished examining it or flicking his hand in a deliberate way to hide a shake. 

Finally, Megatron cleared his throat and spoke. “I’m having a bit of a dilemma and I’d like your opinion.” 

“Professional or personal?” Ratchet asked without looking at him. 

Megatron frowned regardless. “I’d like to say it’s about a patient, but in truth the person in question won’t admit to having an issue, so I can’t diagnose or treat it.” 

Ratchet snorted, still not looking at him. “Well, I’ve had my fair share of Autobots that refuse to come into the medbay for a check-up.” 

Megatron resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

“What seems to be the issue?” Ratchet continued, nearly dropping another vial and covering for it quickly by bracing it with his other hand. 

Megatron crossed his arms. “I haven’t looked at his files yet, out of respect for his privacy, but I happen to know that he has transplanted parts, and I assume, simply from knowing his personality, that he probably hasn’t had anyone perform maintenance on them other than himself, because of his own obstinance.” 

Ratchet paused, setting down the vial in his shaking hand, and glared at Megatron. 

To which Megatron glared right back at him. 

Ratchet brushed past him, which surprised Megatron a little. From everything he’d known of Ratchet, he’d been braced for a fight rather than a retreat. He spun to watch Ratchet, to see him grabbing a medkit and heading for the CMO’s office. He glared over at Megatron before he could speak. 

“Come on then,” Ratchet growled at him. 

Surprised, Megatron moved slowly into the office. 

“And shut the door behind you!” 

He did so wordlessly, and looked around. The office was cosy, quiet, and dimly lit (but not dark). It spoke of the spartan aesthetic of someone used to making due with whatever few resources were available. It was functional, and not much else. 

He’d been in here before, of course. In his capacity as Ratchet’s newest (and currently only) medical student, he’d been in here quite a lot, growing used to Ratchet dragging him in here to discuss treatments and procedures away from from patients, to go over ideas, quiz Megatron’s knowledge, and get both of them on the same page to present a united front. 

Somehow, this time felt different though. Ratchet hadn’t surrendered nor retreated so much as he had moved them to his own home turf. As a tactician, Megatron felt a vague sense of failure. 

Ratchet plopped the medkit down on the desk, and glared at Megatron. “Well, come on then.” 

Megatron blinked at him, surprised, and grabbed one of the chairs and pulled it around to Ratchet’s side of the desk. He happened to know, from previous encounters, that Ratchet’s desk was an older model with a pullout board on the sides, and did so to make an impromptu hand rest, leaving the bulk of the free space on the desk (which wasn’t much, given the scattered data pads across its surface) to hold the medkit and tools. 

Ratchet set one hand on the board while Megatron opened the clasps on the kit and started picking out the tools he would need. Megatron looked over at Ratchet, then down at his hand, in between arranging the tools. “I can do both at once,” he said. 

“No need,” Ratchet said, not looking at him. “Once you fix one, I can deal with the other myself.” 

Megatron stared at him, until finally it became too awkward for Ratchet to avoid his gaze. Finally, their eyes met, and Ratchet grumbled, setting his other arm on the board. 

“Fine,” he muttered, looking away. 

With Ratchet finally consenting to both arms being worked on, Megatron ran a finger over the inner side of his left forearm, pointer finger tracing the groove of the transformation seam, running from his inner elbow to wrist. As it got closer to the wrist, Ratchet shuddered slightly. 

“Sorry,” Megatron muttered. “Just trying to find the point of separation.” 

Ratchet nodded. “I know. I didn’t mean to move, it’s just sensitive.” 

“You can go ahead and deaden both forearms if you’d like. I’ve got it from here.” 

Ratchet shook his head. “I’ve numbed the pain receptors, but if I shut off the nerves entirely you won’t be able to do reflex tests until after you’ve closed up.” 

Megatron gave him a dubious look. Even with a numbing command, there would still be sensations that could tip over into pain. Obviously, as a medic, Ratchet knew that, but Megatron rolled the thought around in his head, considering whether that spoke more of Ratchet’s confidence in his own pain tolerance, or in something else. 

“So as I said, I hadn’t looked into your file,” Megatron said, as he slid the blunt end of a panel separator into the groove of the transformation seam. “But as I understand it, these were Pharma’s hands?” 

Ratchet frowned. “So, who’s the gossip that told you that one?” 

“Skids,” Megatron said. “Though I wouldn’t exactly call it gossiping. He brought it up during the quantum duplicate debacle, when all of the original crew was disappearing, and you left your hands behind.” 

Ratchet gave a huff at that, but didn’t argue with it. “So, what signs and symptoms are you looking for in a case of transplant wear and tear?” 

He knew the answer of course, and Megatron had to remind himself not to bristle at that. He knew Ratchet wasn’t questioning his confidence. Rather, he was quizzing his student. Though, the fact that he was clearly doing it to change the subject was more than a little irritating. 

“In any transplant part, there’s a chance accelerated for wear and tear due to pieces not matching up exactly with the surrounding ones, especially when they weren’t fitted for the new user,” Megatron said. “This is doubly so the case for transplants between forged mechs, as the parts aren’t made to the exact specifications for the new user.” 

Ratchet nodded, but didn’t say anything to that. 

“As for things I _did_ hear through more idle gossip,” Megatron said, “I understand your original hands were very worn down before the encounter with Pharma at Delphi.” When Ratchet didn’t say anything to that, Megatron plowed straight on through. “Why didn’t you replace your hands sooner?” 

Megatron had Ratchet’s left forearm completely splayed open before him, finally having gently coaxed the surrounding panels apart. He laid both forearm panels — both still attached to the arm on the outer side — to rest on the table, and slid the panel separator tool in to follow the path of the flexor lines. Ratchet flinched slightly as Megatron tested one flexor, and found it much more taut than it should be. 

“Machined hands wouldn’t be as sensitive as the hands of a forged mech,” Ratchet said, quietly.

“Mmm, yes. I’ve heard the rhetoric before. How a cold constructed mech could never be a skilled doctor…” He met Ratchet’s eyes, and Ratchet had the good grace to look sheepish as Megatron dove his cold constructed hands deeper around the struts of the arm, expertly teasing around in the delicate nooks and crannies to loosen the flexors. 

“That’s not what I…” He sighed. “It’s just a scientific fact of our poor ability to machine new parts as intricate as…” 

“Brainstorm has been machining much more sensitive and intricate parts than hands since before the war even ended,” Megatron said, cutting him off, while resisting the urge to bit his tongue as he worked in the narrow space. “Again, if the rumor mills are to be believed.” 

Ratchet went silent at that. In the meantime, Megatron didn’t let it slow his pace, extracting his fingers and reaching for the laid out tools. 

“You’re right,” Ratchet finally said. “I’m sorry.” 

“There’s no need to—” 

“Oh shut up,” Ratchet said. “Of course there is.” He shook his head, a smoldering anger on his face, but clearly not directed at Megatron. “You’re right. I was still clinging to the functionalist lie, about forged mechs being superior.” He sighed. “Not that I truly believe that. It was just an excuse. That wasn’t… that wasn’t really it.” 

Megatron traded his panel separator for a blunted hook, that he ran along the length of the flexors. He followed the first one up the mid forearm where he disconnected it. Even with his sensations dim, Megatron could see the relief in Ratchet’s frame, the release of pressure that he probably hadn’t even been consciously aware of. Megatron continued, plunging his fingers back into the open wrist, prying back the filament bands shielding the flexors, so that he could guide the tool back in to loosen the next one. 

“I didn’t mean to pressure you into talking about something so sensitive,” Megatron said, only for Ratchet to scoff. 

“You brought up my hands,” Ratchet said. “Nothing more sensitive to a medic than that.”

Megatron finished up disconnecting the flexors of the first arm, and quickly moved to the next to repeat the procedure. As he ran his finger down the transformation seam again, he looked to Ratchet’s face to see if he felt the sensation again. Ratchet was looking down at the wrist instead of meeting Megatron’s eyes. 

“There’s nothing wrong with your hands, by the way,” Ratchet said, voice hardly louder than a whisper. “You’re shaping up to be a fine medic. One of the finest students I’ve ever taught, and don’t kid yourself into thinking I’m just making that up to make nice after I screwed up.” Ratchet scowled at that, as if he expected Megatron to interject. “I mean it. I don’t want you to let some functionalist lie that an old dog like me keeps clinging onto hold you back.”

Megatron let his face soften at that. He left alone his prying at the panel and gingerly caressed around Ratchet’s wrist, cupping the hand in his palm. Even with his sensors numbed, he knew Ratchet would feel some of it. “I imagine it’s hard. Shedding those beliefs and leaving them behind.”

Ratchet shook his head. “It wasn’t just Orion that followed your writings, you know. I’ve heard all the anti-functionalist rhetoric. And I fought for it.” He sighed. “I opened a clinic in Dead End despite the functionalist rulings of the senate. It’s nothing new to me.”

“But it’s different when it’s about you, and your body,” Megatron said. He gently moved his hand to get back to prying the panels apart. “Though I’m flattered to hear I had some influence.” The panels cracked apart under his prying, and he smiled. “It’s funny though.”

“What?”

“You still calling him Orion.”

Ratchet laughed. “That’s who he always was. To me, at least.” He smiled, though there was a sadness to it. “I always felt Orion Pax was the best of him. Even more so than the Prime.”

Megatron smirked. “I feel if I were to agree, my reputation would only cheapen the sentiment.”

Just as on the other arm, Megatron uncoupled the flexor lines at the midpoint of the forearm, and saw the pressure drain from Ratchet’s frame. That done, he returned to the first hand, coaxing the limp joints to bend and turn, testing their range of motion for any resistance. He made a few adjustments, tightening and loosening as needed, and getting so lost in the process that it took him a moment to realize they’d been silent for some time. He looked up to see Ratchet staring at his work intently. Megatron was used to the intense gaze Ratchet gave when he was meticulously watching and judging his work, but this was a softer look. 

“Sorry for staring,” Ratchet said, noting Megatron’s look. “It just reminded me of how Orion used to stare at me working.” His smile was wistful now, and Megatron had no doubts that his thoughts were in a different era, millions of years in the past. “There was something about him. When he paid you a compliment, it really meant something. Even if it was something you’d heard a thousand times, from his mouth, it stuck with you.”

“That’s very true,” Megatron muttered. “He always had a way about him, didn’t he?” 

“Of course he wasn’t the first to praise the quality of my work, the speed of my hands, but…” Ratchet trailed off, shaking his head. “Sometimes I think I became CMO of the Autobots right then, right at that moment in a dusty shack in Dead End, the minute Orion saw me work.” 

“So, you felt if you lost your hands…” 

Ratchet smiled, closing his eyes. “I don’t mean to give all credit to Orion. I’m one of the lucky ones. I was born to do a job I love. One I had a passion for. He certainly gave me a reason, but… I probably would have worn my hands down to the quick with or without him giving me a reason to.” 

“And then you replaced your hands with those of a doctor who worked similarly tirelessly for most of his career as well,” Megatron muttered. Ratchet opened his eyes and looked up at that, to which Megatron merely smirked. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist the observation.” 

“No, you’re right,” Ratchet said. “But you’re lucky to say it when I have no ability to smack you for it.” 

Megatron smirked, and set back down the hand he’d been adjusting. When he plunged back in to reconnect the flexors, he found his tuning had loosened up enough slack that the clipped back in with less tension. “Not to worry. Soon enough you’ll be able to take your revenge.” 

He finished up reconnecting, prodding at the tip of Ratchet’s fingers after each one to test the reflexes, and each on jumped in accordance as it should at each test. By the time Megatron was closing up the panels, Ratchet was nodding approvingly. 

“There,” Megatron said, running the reassembled hand through a few motions before setting it down. “Let me know how that feels. You should get sensation back fully in the next few—” 

He stopped short as Ratchet’s hand flew out of his grip, showcasing a reaction time that betrayed that Ratchet had probably started reactivating his sensors before Megatron had fully closed up. It would have taken precise timing to get it down to the right nanosecond for the sensors to finish their reactivation cycling right as Megatron was closing up, but if anyone could pull off such a feat, it was undoubtedly Ratchet. 

Ratchet’s hand darted up to his face, and for a moment Megatron was worried he’d be getting the smack that Ratchet had teased about. But instead, Ratchet pulled his head down, with a grasp that was firm and gentle in equal measure, and kissed him. 

Megatron blinked at him. 

“That’s what you get,” Ratchet said, “for all those gentle touches and precision work.” 

Megatron tilted his head. “I… suppose I was asking for it, when you put it that way.” 

“Now…” Ratchet clattered his still-open right arm against the hand rest with a motion from his shoulder. “If you wouldn’t mind finishing up.” 

Megatron synthesized a cough and shook his head to clear it. “Of course, right away.” 

With that, Ratchet leaned back, grinning, as Megatron got to work.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to check me out [on twitter](https://twitter.com/blue_mels) if you'd like more info on my fics.


End file.
